


What I Am and What They’re Making Me

by m3aculpa



Series: dark_bingo, round 2 [5]
Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Community: cabinpres_fic, Community: dark_bingo, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Trans Character, Transphobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-27
Updated: 2012-04-27
Packaged: 2017-11-04 09:50:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/392491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/m3aculpa/pseuds/m3aculpa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p> They are stripping the last remaining layers of Martin Crieff away to reveal the remnants of the pale trembling, terrified creature Elena that he’s buried deep inside. </p><p>For two prompts: <a href="http://cabinpres-fic.dreamwidth.org/783.html?thread=2877711#cmt2877711">this one</a> on cabinpres_fic and <i>family</i> for dark_bingo.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What I Am and What They’re Making Me

**Author's Note:**

> **Title:** What I Am and What They’re Making Me  
>  **Fandom:** Cabin Pressure  
>  **Rating:** R  
>  **Word count:** 2278 words  
>  **Character(s):** Martin Crieff, Crieff family – Caitlin, Simon, their mum, Douglas Richardson  
>  **Pairing(s):** None  
>  **Warnings:** Transphobia  
>  **Prompt:** This [prompt](http://cabinpres-fic.dreamwidth.org/783.html?thread=2877711#cmt2877711) over at [](http://cabinpres-fic.livejournal.com/profile)[**cabinpres_fic**](http://cabinpres-fic.livejournal.com/). Also used it to fill my wildcard square (prompt family) for [](http://dark-bingo.livejournal.com/profile)[**dark_bingo**](http://dark-bingo.livejournal.com/).  
>  **Summary:**  They are stripping the last remaining layers of Martin Crieff away to reveal the remnants of the pale trembling, terrified creature Elena that he’s buried deep inside.   
>  **a/n:** I tried to pick a female name as far removed from Martin as possible and went with the one I did mainly because both Simon’s and Caitlin’s names have Greek origins. Former language student – I’m allowed to be a nerd.  
> 

**What I AM and What They're Making Me**

  
There’s one person in his entire family that Martin Crieff can honestly say that he cares about, after all is said and done. The one person who had unconditionally accepted him the way he is, and now that person is gone. His Gran is dead.

He releases a shuddering breath. His eyes are swollen and red from crying and his nose is red as well. There’s a lost, forlorn look on his face that he recognises from years before. He doesn’t know what to do. Or rather, he does know what he wants to do and it isn’t what he’ll be forced to do. He knows the stipulation that he should be allowed to come to a family gathering. It kills him inside to acquiescence, but he’s got no choice – it’s his Gran’s funeral.

He can see her eyes before him. They looked like his own – grey and feline – but she always looked like she was smiling. Her mouth could be serious, but her eyes would always be smiling. She believed him when he said that he was going to be a pilot. She supported him in everything and he – he closed his eyes in pain – he’d cancelled on her the week she died. He’d been supposed to visit her and something had come up and that was the last time he spoke to her. He had to live with the knowledge that his last words to her had been, ‘I’ll see you next week, instead.’

He starts to unbutton his shirt, resigned to giving into their demands. Too late he wishes that he hadn’t been undressing in front of the mirror. Too late is when the shirt parts and he can see his ribs protruding. Too late is when he can see the all too visible twin scars on his chest – the scars from his mastectomy. It’s a good job. The surgeon was really skilled. But he hates the reminder – the way his eyes flick to the scars immediately – that he once had to live in the skin of somebody he wasn’t.

He undresses slowly and as he undresses, he peels away the layers that make him Martin Crieff. He keeps his boxers on and reaches into his closet. He owns exactly one skirt and female dress-shirt and they are old and have not been worn for years. His hands touch them and stills. He isn’t looking at them. Not really.

If he’s to be allowed to any family gathering, it’s been made clear – he’s got to wear women’s clothing. They will call him by the name they gave him at birth and ignore who he really is. He’s not had any contact with his family, aside from his Gran, since his dad’s funeral. And they blame him for that. They think that the stress of his transitioning was the cause of the heart-attack.

With a sigh, he shrugs the white shirt over his shoulders and buttons it up. It makes his skin crawl how it gives the illusion of curves around the hips. It looks laughable; the way the shirt bulges in front of his chest. But he doesn’t feel like laughing, rather like crying. He pulls the skirt out of the closet and slides it up over his hips. What he sees in the mirror is grotesque. It’s not him. It had never been him, but try telling his family that.

He crosses his arms over his stomach and hugs himself. Just a tiny squeeze for comfort. It’s amazing how just the clothes can take him back to that time. The sheer misery of it his existence back then. He’d never been good at playing at being girl. Yes, playing at – because that was what it felt like. It hadn’t been fun. It felt like everybody was privy to the rules but him and he felt lost and confused when he tried to follow them. They didn’t suit him. Trying to follow them made it hurt inside.

The misery in his eyes and stance are the same as when he was a teenager – back when he was wondering why the clothes, the make-up and the hair looked so wrong and made him feel so horrible. Now he knows why and he wishes that there’d been somebody to talk to him back then. To tell him that things could get better. Could get right.

He looks away from the mirror, away from the look in his eyes, and turns away. No make-up – he can’t stomach putting it on right now, even if his mum will be disappointed, but who wears make-up to a funeral anyway? – and sensible shoes that’ll make Caitlin cluck with disapproval. He just grabs the suit jacket and leaves the room. Thankfully none of the students are out and about – too early on a Saturday morning for that – and catch him wearing these clothes. He feels strangely ashamed, like he’s doing something wrong, when he slides in behind the wheel of his van.

‘It’s just a few hours,’ he tries to tell his mirror reflection, stumbling over the words and not really believing it.

His skin is crawling when he slowly reverses the car out of the space and starts driving towards the church. His fingers twitch as he resists the urge to fiddle with the horrible clothing. It’s just luck – the universe really has a rotten sense of humour – that he doesn’t crash on his way. But he makes it there safe and unharmed, squeezing his rusty van between Simon’s gaudy sports car and Caitlin’s more sensible, obviously family, car.

The sound of his feet on the gravel is all he hears as he approaches the tiny white church. For one wild moment, he considers just turning on his heel and running away. But he’s here to say goodbye to his Gran and that’s what he’s going to do. He squares his shoulders and enter the church.

There’s a huge turn out of Crieffs in various shapes and forms mingling before the service. His mum still doesn’t manage to be too distracted to notice him. Her face is pale and the eyes are red, but she still manages to give him an approving smile. There’s a lump in his throat and ice-cold lead in his stomach, but he still manages a forced smile at her. He’s not ready when she comes over and hugs him. Kissing his cheek, she says, ‘It’s good to see you, Elena, even if it could have been under better circumstances.’

He hates that name. When he was transitioning, he picked a name as far removed from it as he could. But he doesn’t correct her and ask her to call him by his real name – Martin. Instead he ducks his head and mumbles, ‘Sorry, mum. It’s just work – you know how it is – I haven’t had the time,’ before giving up trying to explain and saying, ‘I’ve missed you too, mum.’

He raises his head just in time to catch the flicker of distaste on her face. The heavy cold weight in his stomach isn’t still – it’s a live monster clawing at his insides. She says, ‘I wish you wouldn’t distort your voice like that.’

Her disappointment is like a slap across the face, but he mumbles a ‘sorry’ and moves away. It’s his real voice. He sounds the way he should with the deep timbre. It was the previous voice – high – that was entirely wrong. Getting out of his mum’s clutches only makes him fall victim for Simon who teases him about his work and asks him if he’s ever going to bring a boyfriend to these family gatherings. Martin feels suffocated and excuses himself. This is a funeral. Why would Simon tease him like this?

Caitlin clucks like he knew she would and says, ‘It’s not that it’s short that it’s the matter, it’s just that you could make the effort to style it, Lena. Gran would have loved if you could at least make an effort to look your best for her funeral.’

He makes some meek noise, but wants to tell her that she’s wrong. Gran would have loved it if he came as himself. She would hate that he is making himself miserable for her sake. But before he can gather enough courage to say these words aloud, the service is beginning and he sits down far away from everybody else. His eyes are stinging and before long he gives up the fight to stop the tears. It’s a beautiful service. He thinks that it would have made her happy. She was much loved so everybody has so many nice things to say about her.

As he’s saying his goodbyes, they can’t respect him enough to leave him in peace. They are stripping the last remaining layers of Martin Crieff away to reveal the remnants of the pale trembling, terrified creature Elena that he’s buried deep inside. He can feel the old terror and shame – the shame they made him feel –welling up inside. Well-meaning touches and hugs and condolences are all accompanied by that hated name – Elena. He feels lonely and miserable. The way he’s felt his entire life.

‘Martin!’

Cocooned in the skin of Elena, which they’ve forcibly wrapped around him, he doesn’t realise that the shouted name is his. It’s only when it’s called a second time that he hears the name and recognises the voice. He goes rigid. His eyes and face have gone hot. He just can bear turning around and see Douglas approach. If there is one person he never wanted to see him like this, it would be Douglas. He can see the future – disgust, merciless mocking, being driven out of MJN. His breath catches painfully in his chest. But he turns around.

Douglas eyebrows disappear into his hairline as he gives Martin an once-over. His voice is incredulous when he asks, ‘What on _earth_ are you wearing?’

The words seem to catch the rest of the family’s attention as they realise that a strange man has crashed the funeral. Mrs Crieff ambles over and asks stiffly, ‘And what, sir, is wrong with what my daughter is wearing?’

Douglas looks at her and seems to notice the family resemblance. His gaze slides over to Caitlin and says, ‘There’s nothing wrong with what your daughter is wearing. What has me a bit befuddled, to be honest, is what your son is wearing.’

‘Elena is not my son,’ his mum says and Martin flinches violently before he can suppress the reaction. ‘If she’s told you that, I’m afraid she’s been lying to you.’

‘Elena?’ Douglas echoes and looks at Martin, makes a face and says, ‘Doesn’t suit you at all, I’m afraid. Mrs Crieff, I presume? I’m afraid that somebody has been lying to you, not me, because you have two sons and one daughter.’

Martin thinks he might be losing his mind, but is Douglas defending him? His mum seems caught off guard by this. Red blotches rise high on her cheekbones and she hisses, ‘I have two daughters and one son. I will not have you encouraging this strange fix idea Elena has that she’s a man, so I’ll ask you to leave.’

Douglas won’t budge. His voice is dangerously smooth when he tells her, ‘I’m afraid that I’ll have to call you delusional if you really think that Martin is a woman. I don’t care what plumbing he was originally born with – you just need to take one look at him and realise that he’s a man.’

He does turn to survey Martin properly, who has been struck dumb. He swallows and tries to say anything, but he just mouths the words. Just as well, probably. He’s got no idea what he wanted to say. Something unfurls within his chest like a hopeful bird. He can feel the wounded Elena settling back into the past and the layers of Martin Crieff returning.

‘A man in less than convincing drag, sure, but a man nonetheless,’ Douglas says and snorted. ‘I’ve never seen anyone less ladylike in my entire life than Martin here.’

He continues to insult Martin’s femininity – or rather the lack of thereof – in front of Martin’s relatives. The thing unfurling stretches inside of him, reaches every part of him, and he’s so grateful to Douglas. It remains strong until the insults get to him and starts to want to throttle Douglas. But he can’t or won’t stop smiling. Pleased and shy.

‘Martin, I could go on about this matter all day, but I do believe that Carolyn would kill me,’ the man finally stops his monologue.

‘C-carolyn?’ he stutters, caught off guard.

‘The flight, remember?’ Douglas says. ‘She’ll skin us if we’re late.’

It’s a lie, of course, but it gives Martin an excuse to bid his relatives goodbyes. He looks at his Gran’s grave with a pang of sadness, but he knows that this moment would have made her so happy. She would have told him that he’s lucky to have such a good friend.

He manages to keep up with Douglas’s longer stride and asks a little breathlessly, maybe a little pleadingly, ‘Did you really mean that?’

‘Martin,’ his first officer drawls, ‘you have to be an even worse clod than _Arthur_ to even entertain for a second that you’re anything but a man.’

‘Oh,’ Martin says softly. ‘Thank you.’

‘No need to thank me for stating the obvious,’ Douglas says. ‘Though if Sir would let me have the first crack at the cheese tray I would be very much happy to accept.’

‘Ah-ha! This was just a plot to get at the cheese tray, wasn’t it?’

Martin can’t stop smiling.

  



End file.
